


Ambition

by turnyourankle



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-10
Updated: 2005-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Justin leaves for New York, Brian keeps receiving mail from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ambition

  
  
Brian slows down his pace as he approaches his mailbox. He knows that the letters usually arrive on Wednesdays. A last drag from his cigarette and he lets the toxic air burn his lungs, the butt drops to the ground and he doesn't bother to stomp out the sizzle before opening the box. His hand steadies as soon as he can touch the envelope and his regular fast paced behavior re-ensues.   
  
The coffee machine is turned on the minute he walks in. He won't open the envelope until the bitter beverage is in his system. As the water is filtered and creates a muffled dripping sound he weighs the envelope in his hands. He tries to guess how many sheets of paper it might contain; more than one, definitely more than two. He seats himself on the couch with the coffee filled coffee cup in a firm grasp and he tilts the envelope, letting the sheets of paper pour onto the table. He stacks them neatly to avoid counting them prematurely. When he does look at the sheets he makes sure to absorb all the details. The first sheet has a painting of a woman on it leaning back with a cigarette in her mouth, with her head cocked to the right and a stern expression. She stares at him defiantly from the page. The yellow post-it attached to the paper reads “It was an elderly woman. She said she reminded her of her daughter.” The next paper contains an abstract, blues and deep cyan exploding, patterns buried under the bursts of colors. He counts the copies – five – and sweeps the contents of his mug. He refills it and fetches five glass frames; he neatly places each sheet in a frame and proceeds to find appropriate spaces to hang them up.  
  
At first Brian was surprised by the envelopes. He wasn't sure what to make of them. Why would Justin send him copies of his art? He was supposed to sell his pieces, not send them to him. But he soon understood. Each sheet, each copy,  _was_  a sold painting. Each sheet, each copy, meant they were closer to being together. The more Justin sold, the more Justin established himself. The sooner they would see each other without week long interruptions and attempts to make up for lost time. And although Brian still stood by his sentiment that it was just that, only time, he was glad Justin had found a way to make it pass faster. That he had found a way to measure how much of it was left. Brian had gotten into the habit of hanging up the copies; it made him miss him less. The more artworks were scattered around the loft the more it felt like Justin was there. These were actual pieces of him, fragments of his mind on paper. Not the day planner he'd left behind when visiting or the stacks of clothes he didn't bring along to begin with.   
  
The next day Brian makes no show of getting the mail. He has never received envelopes in two consecutive days; they were always a week apart. This is why he doesn’t pay much attention to the contents of the box and doesn’t notice the slim white envelope with handwriting. He notices it with surprise in the evening when he does open the mail. The thin envelope contains a plane ticket to New York and a business card from Parkinson-Evans gallery with the address highlighted and a time scribbled with a blue pen. He knows that it must be from Justin, and for a split second he wonders if he missed a mention of a planned visit. But he and Justin never discuss his art or the galleries he frequents and he is certain that if they had planned a visit the ticket purchasing would've been left to him. Since he doesn't expect to be hit with clarity on the matter anytime soon he lights a cigarette and goes to find his overnight bag.  
  
  
  
When arriving in New York, Brian doesn't bother to do anything. He finds a café where he makes sure to intoxicate himself with enough nicotine and caffeine to be prepared for what will come. He takes the time to call Ted to check up on things and reads Times magazine from cover to cover without remembering so much as word of it. And as soon as the small and the long arrow on the café's clock are juxtaposed to show that the time is now 6 PM, he leaves his seat without as much as a glance at how much money he leaves on the table.  
  
The painting stares at him as soon as he sets foot inside the gallery. He knows it's Justin's. He has spent so many hours looking at his work, studying it, trying to picture him in the process of making it. How his blond hair would drape his forehead while he studied the canvas intently. How his arm muscles would tense and steady when stroking the canvas with the paint of his choice. He picks up a glass of red wine from one of the trays that seem to float around the room, carried by diligent waiters eager to finish their shifts. He steps closer to the canvas as he sips his wine – dehydration combined with a vast amount of alcohol is never fun to deal with. Stark orange and rough shapes scattered throughout the canvas and beneath all the layers of acrylics a barely detectable shadow of a face interacting with the vivid colors.   
  
“Do you like what you see?”   
  
There's no need for Brian to turn to know who's standing next to him.  
  
“As much as I appreciate fine arts and culture, I'd much rather be admiring your ass.”  
  
Justin chuckles at that and sweeps his drink.  
  
“I'm fairly certain that can be arranged.”   
  
They glance at each other and they can't contain their laughter. “Shall we go?”  
  
  
  
By the time they reach the apartment door Brian's chest is exposed and his fingers are working on unbuttoning Justin's shirt while he struggles to open the door. They stumble in and barely slam it shut before ridding themselves of their garments. The fabrics form a pool at their feet and they shuffle through leaning on each other until they reach the couch. They barely fit but there's no point in trying to find their way to the bedroom. It's been far too long since they tasted each other and the time spent navigating around the apartment would be time wasted. Brian is straddling Justin and their skulls butt each other as their mouths lunge against one another. Justin accidentally bites Brian’s lip but the only response he gets is more hungry kisses. His arms wrap around Brian’s torso in attempt to make the distance between them disappear. Brian’s hands are working on removing Justin's boxers, the only piece of clothing left separating them from each other when he stops and shifts his weight.   
  
“What is it?” Justin asks as he moves back on the small space they have to give Brian more room. His blond hair has grown long again and is almost touching his eyelashes. Brian right hand ruffles through it before replying.  
  
“I missed you.”   
  
Justin can't help but smile as he squirms out of his boxers before giving Brian some room and whispering in his ear.  
  
“Me too.”  
  
  
  
  
“So?” Brian's hands fingers clasp the glass of water Justin hands him and he leans back landing on one of the tall stools by the counter. He takes a gulp and the metallic taste settles on his tongue – it's evident that it's not bottled water. Justin doesn't acknowledge his inquiry and instead sets course for the coffee machine. “So,” Brian tries again, “why am I here?”   
  
“To accompany me back home.” Justin delivers his response matter-of-factly, the muscles in his back working visibly as he reaches into a cupboard for the coffee beans. “Colombian, Ethiopian or the crap we have?” The poor lighting emphasizes the hollows of Justin's body. Brian can almost see Justin's ribs and he is certain that Justin looked pale when he saw him in the gallery. The hair that looked so beautiful long looks shaggy and has lost its luster. Brian wouldn't have been surprised if Justin had been living on coffee since they last saw each other. “Justin?”  
  
“The crap it is.”  
  
“Justin. Nothing's changed. You can't just give up.”  
  
“Who said I was giving up?” Justin presses the on button and returns the coffee box to its place. He sets off to find his underwear, none of the clothes are where they first landed and he's forced to form two piles before finding the black boxers.  
  
“You can't leave before you've finished what you've started. You just can't.”  
  
“What? You want me to conquer the art world? You do know that no one truly conquers the art world until they're dead. You're not suggesting I kill myself are you? ” At this point Justin is more amused than upset, he tosses Brian's underwear at him but Brian lets the fabric land at his feet – he can't go through this one more time.  
  
“It's not funny.”  
  
“But it's true.” Justin pulls the second stool closer to Brian and sits, facing him, looking him in the eyes. “You were right that I had to leave. But you were wrong about the reason why.” The coffee machine splutters and steam starts to rise. The button has changed color from red to green.   
  
“You left to be a grand famous artist and...”  
  
“No.” Justin leans in and places his hands on Brian's knees, placing some of his weight on them. “Maybe originally, but artists are everywhere. You would not believe the crap I've seen here. Just because you're in the big apple doesn't mean you're brilliant, it just means there are more of you.” He reaches over to the coffee maker and pours the steaming liquid into two of the stacked mugs that are on the counter. “The gallery we were at earlier, they've agreed to display some of my stuff. And there's this other place, very small but respectable, that wants some of my stuff too.”  
  
“That's great but you can't just...”  
  
“Rely on those two? I never said I would.” Brian remembered how annoyed he'd been the first time Justin had finished his sentences for him. Now it just seemed like one of the things they did, one of the things they had to show that they were partners. He reaches for the pack of cigarettes that lies abandoned and Justin passes him a lighter that he fishes up from a hidden drawer.  
  
“So, let's say you come back with me. What will you do? There's no way you're gonna be a famous painter living in the Pitts.” He takes a drag and swallows down some of the coffee before exhaling. Justin was right, it's was shitty coffee.  
  
“I'll keep painting. I never wanted to be famous, I wanted to be an artist and I just told you that I don't have to be here to be that. I'd rather be dead than yet another blasé grand New York artiste. Most of the stuff I've sold hasn't even been sold here.” He's fidgeting with the lighter and Brian notices the paint stains on his nails, he can also tell that he's been biting them. “I've done what I could. I took advantage of my buzz. I don't think you realize how miserable I've been here.”  
  
“What are you talking about? Every time I've seen you...”  
  
“That's because I was with you. I've been living on coffee and cigarettes - literally. And all the work that I've done that has been worth keeping... It was done before you came to visit - or before I went to see you, or when you were here. Or when I just got back, or when you just left. I'm not cut out for the New York lifestyle.”  
  
“I don't want you to do this for me.”  
  
“Aren't we being Mr. Self-Centered? Brian, I love you, but my life does not revolve around you. I'm not doing it for you. Didn't you say you wanted me to be happy?” Brian nods. “I'm not happy here. And the fucking cliché of tortured artists is bullshit, the only reason those fucks receive so much attention is because they're assholes who create drama at shows or kill themselves after stabbing the girl of their dreams because she wouldn't pose for them in the nude.”   
  
“That still doesn't explain why you wanted me to come here, you don't need an escort.”  
  
“Of course not, but I thought you could get me into the mile-high club, mon amour.” Justin's hand lingers on Brian's shoulder and Brian pulls him up from the stool, locking him with his legs, he has a sly smile and kisses Justin before answering, now with a grin plastered on his face.   
  
“I'm fairly certain that can be arranged.” 


End file.
